


Stay The Night

by john-whatson (ahvengering)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Fix-It, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Post-Mary Morstan's Death, Post-Season/Series 04, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-16
Updated: 2018-08-16
Packaged: 2019-06-28 01:11:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15697110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ahvengering/pseuds/john-whatson
Summary: John Watson is in mourning for his late wife, and Sherlock doesn't think he should be alone.(A fix-it for Season 4 of Sherlock)





	Stay The Night

“I’m sorry. I should go.”

Sherlock frowned at John, pulling back from the hug and abruptly feeling as though he had lost something very important. “Of course not. You’re in no fit state to be traveling.”

John wiped his eyes on his sleeve, sniffling and refusing to meet Sherlock’s eyes. “I need to pick up Rosie, and Harry’ll be expecting me to call-”

“John.”

The army doctor looked up. Sherlock’s voice was soft, eyes full of a deep sympathy John wasn’t sure he deserved.

“Stay the night.”

He looked away again. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

John snorted. “You know why not.”

Sherlock tilted his head to the side. “Is the reason really Rosie, John?”

“Of course it is.” John still refused to meet Sherlock’s eyes. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“I don’t know.”

Pregnant silence filled the room. When Sherlock spoke, his voice was hesitant. “I…I’m not sure you should be alone tonight. If you could bring Rosie here-”

“No!” John said harshly. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. “Sherlock, stop, I’m not staying, okay?”

“John…” Sherlock struggled for a moment, stumbling over his words. “Please? I…I’m concerned about you. I need to…I have to know that you’re okay.”

John let out a long breath, one hand on his hip and the other pinching the bridge of his nose. He wrestled with himself for a few moments, then spoke, exasperation coloring his voice. “Okay. Okay, I’ll stay.”

Sherlock relaxed, a faint smile gracing his sharp features. “You call Rosie’s sitter. I’ll go make up your room.”

“You know how to make beds?” John sniped after the detective as he took the stairs up to John’s old bedroom two at a time.

“Mrs. Hudson isn’t always around to do it!” Sherlock called down loudly.

John rolled his eyes and pulled out his phone. Molly would lecture him on not spending enough time with his daughter, but just for tonight, John figured he deserved a small break from the responsibilities of the world.

……

It was just like old times. John and Sherlock lounged on the couch in front of the telly, eating Chinese and laughing at the stupidest shows they could find. It felt right, John realized, as if he was where he belonged.

The army doctor stretched as a commercial blared across the screen. “Think I might turn in.”

Sherlock yawned widely. “I’m n-not tired at all.”

“Like hell you aren’t.” John chuckled, standing and gathering up the scattered takeout containers and beer bottles that littered the floor around them. “Go to bed, Sherlock.”

Sherlock smiled happily, eyes closed. “John…”

“Hmm?” John deposited the rubbish in the kitchen bin, turning to look at the detective. His brown curls were adorably rumpled, shirt rucked up from where he’d been snuggling into the couch cushions.

“I missed you.” Sherlock’s cheeks were flushed with pink, right index finger tapping out a gentle rhythm against his trouser-covered thigh.

John smiled softly and approached him, the alcohol and the adrenaline high of being back with Sherlock making him brave. He carded a hand through Sherlock’s curls, scratching lightly at his scalp with short fingernails. “Missed you too, you daft bastard.”

……

John woke with a shout, cold sweat dripping from his limbs. A nightmare about Mary had once again pulled him out of deep slumber. He steadied his shaking body, regulating his accelerated breathing to a less dangerous pace.

He stared up at the ceiling, glowing with dim light from the streetlamp outside his window. The room was warm, his bed piled with blankets, one of which he identified as one of Sherlock’s favorite afghans. After months of living elsewhere in London, John would have thought the room would seem foreign and empty upon his return, but it felt as though he had never left.

 “John?”

The doctor turned, shifting his legs so he could face a worried-looking Sherlock standing in the doorway. “I’m fine. Just restless.”

Sherlock searched his face, eyes glowing in the dark of the room. “Nightmare. The war-” he broke off abruptly, then shook his head, concern written on his face as he approached the bed. “Not the war. Not the fall.” He paused again, then let out a long breath. “Oh. Yes, of course.”

John scrubbed a hand over his face, letting the rough scrape of calloused skin on his cheek bring him back from the line between consciousness and daydreaming. “Happens every night. I can’t get her out of my head.”

“No, I wouldn’t think so,” Sherlock said absently, “John-”

“No,” John said sharply, “absolutely not. Sherlock, you…look, you don’t understand. I can’t.”

“It would be for the best.” Sherlock’s voice was soft, a gentle quality to it that John rarely heard. He sat next to John, hand falling into the valley of space between them. “You can bring Rosie. I will cover all the rent until you get back on your feet, you know that.”

“Sherlock, I…” John stared down at the sheets, heart feeling as though it might tear in two. “I can’t. You-there’s no way. Moving back here, it…it would hurt me more than it would help me.”

Sherlock looked away, eyes full of hurt. “Admittedly, I am not the best at…emotional assistance, with the grieving process, but John…” he hesitated, then spoke, voice nearly a whisper, “I would never hurt you, or Rosie. Not knowingly, not ever.”

“I know, Sherlock, I’m not-that’s not what I mean.” John ran a hand through his hair, a limp strand drifting down onto his forehead. “Jesus, I…”

“John, please, whatever is stopping you…” Sherlock’s voice was pleading, full of urgency, “I can help. Please, John, let me help you.”

John shook his head, feeling as though his heart might explode. “Sherlock, I can’t.”

Sherlock’s voice was raw and shaking. “John, please!”

“Sherlock-”

“Just tell me. Just tell me why!”

“You wouldn’t-”

The detective shook his head, desperate. “I would, just tell me. You just have to talk to me, John, please. That’s all I’m asking!”

John shook his head, feeling hot, angry tears well up in his eyes. “I can’t-”

“John, please!”

John threw his hands in the air, voice hoarse and full of every emotion that was trapped in his chest. “Fine! I’m in love with you!”

Silence filled the room, time standing alarmingly still. The pair sat there, on the bed, each miles away from the other. Sherlock’s face was blank, his mind attempting to process the impossible words he had just heard. John simply sat there, a dark storm gathering in his heart as he realized what he had just done.

“You…” Sherlock’s voice was soft and, if John wasn’t mistaken, had an underlying hint of hope hidden in it. “For how long?”

“Since the goddamn day we met.” John covered his face with his hands, water spilling unbidden down his cheeks. “’Afghanistan or Iraq?’, and I was completely, utterly taken with you, you giant sod.”

Sherlock was silent, mouth hanging open by a fraction. He closed it abruptly and cleared his throat. “John, I…”

“Yeah, I know. You’re ‘married to your work’. I never expected it to happen, Sherlock. And that was fine.” John knew his voice gave away the longing he had so often experienced, the nights he had laid alone in his bed, crying over the man who would never love him back. “Then Mary came along, and…I fell in love with her too, and she loved me back, which made for a nice change of pace.”

“John…” Sherlock sounded broken.

“Don’t.” John looked up at the detective, eyes red. “Don’t say anything. I’ll just go.”

Sherlock reached out to the doctor. “No! John, please.”

“I never should have stayed the night anyways, I-”

John’s words were cut off by the press of soft lips against his own.

Sherlock was kissing him.

Sherlock Holmes, the consulting detective, the brilliant enigma of a man who was never interested in anything other than crime, the man he was desperately in love with, was kissing him.

It was the most wonderful thing John had ever experienced in his life.

His hands flew up to cup Sherlock’s face tenderly, stroking over the glasslike cheekbones with his calloused fingers. Sherlock’s mouth tasted sweet, and his lips fit against John’s in a way that felt like home.

Sherlock’s hands came up to wrap around John’s shoulders, long fingers dancing delicately up the back of his neck and into his hair. He pulled back, lips hovering just a few inches away from John’s as he spoke in a soft voice. “John, if I ever gave you any indication that I didn’t care for you in that way, it was because I assumed that someone as incredible as you would never give me the time of day.”

John chuckled wetly, sniffling. “Well, looks as though we both made stupid decisions.”

“John.” Sherlock pulled John to sit down on the bed and stared intensely at him, voice serious. “You’ve just been through an intense period of trauma. I’ve been told by Mycroft that for humans that are not…me, that makes moving forward difficult. I can completely understand if you wouldn’t want to move back in.”

“No, I do. Sherlock, you’re right,” John said quickly, “it would be much easier on both me and Rosie if we stayed with someone I trust. I just don’t know if I can-”

“I don’t expect anything from you, John.” Sherlock took John’s hand, his voice unusually gentle. “Not now, not ever.”

John nodded, not knowing what to say. Finally, he spoke, his voice hoarse. “Sherlock, I…thank you.”

Sherlock nodded, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to John’s cheek. “Anything you need.”

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this back in January of 2017, right after the new episodes aired and I'd finished screaming abuse at the BBC for their queerbaiting. I brushed this up, edited it, and am now posting it because it seems that Sherlock has officially ended. And, yes, I'm still salty *shakes fist at Moffat*


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